


Leaf Fall

by orphan_account



Series: Like Pieces of a Puzzle [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Hints of Emotional Manipulation, Hopeful Ending, Lavellan really is a Jerk now, M/M, Non-Explicit Description of Sexual Scenes, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dorian has never gotten off the right foot with the Inquisitor, and one day, he crosses the line.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lavellan is a conniving arse.

The night is cold on this specific day.

Heavy, deep breathing fills the gaps between ceiling and silk sheets. A rustle here, some fidgeting there; all evidence of some sort of inhabitant. The wind blows in from the open balcony, cool breeze gently caressing the skin, playfully tousling the hair.

Dorian shifts in his place, sore and he hisses as he turns over onto his back, where the ceiling is as high as sky; almost near enough to reach, but too far to grasp. He basks in the afterglow of sex for a moment, where his mind is blank, and thinks of nothing. The ache comes from behind, and as clarity slowly snakes its tendrils around him, he tilts his head, unfocussed gaze landing on the still, sleeping figure of an elf.

Lavellan was rougher than usual this time. Something had irked his displeasure - perhaps the spat he had had with an arrogant Orlesian noble in the morning? He had carried a frown around all day, until when the doors slid shut. It was then he made his mood clear in the way he slammed Dorian against the wall, and in the way he bid the Altus silent as he forced himself into him.

Not that the mage minds. To the contrary, he has little to no qualms about tonight's encounter. The aggression displayed just now is not at all uncommon. The elf's short temper makes certain of that. Moreso, he enjoys it, relishes the feral side of the stoic, composed Inquisitor. A little secret only he is privy to.

Dorian drags his eyes away.

He has been in many relationships, all of them physical - this is no different. Yet, _this_ relationship can't surely be _right_. It extends beyond just touches and spending the nights together.

It definitely isn't healthy, either. He knows that.

Yet, why does he keep coming back for more?

It had begun with mere, fleeting glances. Filled with fire and fury. Poison, and so very, very venomous.

 _I despise your guts_ , _you despise mine_.

What then followed would be one word, then two, then three. A countdown that signified the adding of venom.

Each gritted through clenched teeth, tight fists, narrowed eyes. Disdain never hidden behind a smokescreen; rather, out and loud - as clear as the water's reflection. Sharp as a hook, sinking through flesh and bone.

They got physical too. Never exchanging direct blows, but rather, having a secondary arm. It did nothing but fuel rage, impatience, scorn in their bloodstreams. Flowing fast, the rush warming beneath their skin, flushing their cheeks.

The only catch was that this all occurred behind closed doors. Where the wall lacked ears and the door eyes. Eye to eye - ice cooling fire, fire melting ice. A battle for the ages.

Then, came a sudden progression in the form of a letter.

The Inquisitor had come up himself, steps light, silent. His vermilion, reptilian orbs never once straying from his face as he read the letter aloud. Perhaps it was to see, to gloat in the way Dorian grew tense; to take sadistic pleasure in how he clenched his jaw, how he unravelled at the mention of 'father'.

Still, they went to Redcliffe, never once speaking as hooves clattered over cobblestones. Again, he suspected the elf basked in the tension and dread he emanated from beneath metal buckles and clean leather.

In the dim, musky room, Dorian met his parent. There, swords were drawn, shields were raised. All the while, Lavellan watched, never interfering. When Dorian whipped his head to his direction - to vent, more than anything - the Dalish's eyes held a gleam, with a small - almost nonexistent - smile.

When they finally left, Dorian had parted on fairly decent terms with the magister. He had been spurred on with a slight tip of the head, the mockery in it that spoke of his cowardice, to give him that little push.

Upon him returning to his alcove, Lavellan appeared once more. Leaning against the wall, amber irises swirling as he coaxed the man to let it go, to let his defenses drop. So he did, worn and aching for comfort. Vulnerable.

The moment he met gazes, a push found him against the cold stone wall. One hand behind his neck, a thigh between his legs. The elf looked at him with lust barely concealed before pulling him into a bruising kiss. Dorian had not fought back. Even with their relations, there was no denying the Inquisitor was attractive.

After they had parted, hot breaths filling the space between their red, swollen lips, Lavellan grinned, hand running down before resting on the small of his back. From those lips came a quiet, low proposition - to dull the pain within, and to replace it with one of pleasure. Tempting - so tempting. He gave his consent the moment he felt the elf begin to rub hips with his.

Soon enough, they were flush against each other up in his quarters.

A part of Dorian was alarmed, to have come to such a point with the elf. The other relished in it - it was the only sense of familiarity left. Something to indulge in in a strange, new world. The stress had built without his knowing. It was both horrible and delightful to partake in.

Lavellan made a good partner, he remembered thinking as he experienced a rapid, throbbing, painful rhythm coursing through. The elf was direct, assertive, and all too eager to please. It was as though he were putting the curses he would normally direct towards him in violent kisses that drew blood, and hard thrusts that made Dorian's back arch. It felt wonderful after so long, and he was nearly thankful to be able to forget, even if it were a short while.

As they laid together, panting and exhausted, a hand firmly gripped his. The elf admitted to wanting this for a long while, and then came another proposal - they would continue such a relationship, though only as a means of release.

He should have rejected. Logically, he should have refused. They held no amiable views for each other - nothing good could come of this.

Yet, he was hesitant. So very conflicted as he stared into those blank, cold eyes. Lavellan had a slight smirk plastered all over; he knew he would agree. He had played _his_ cards right. Even so, Dorian had a suspicion had he said no, the elf would have had no qualms in forcibly taking him.

Temptation has always been his greatest weakness, he mulls over.

Ever since then, came a tweak in their daily routines.

The bursts of flaming words drew to a halt, limited to angry glares and heavy silence. The others had never witnessed their feuds, but all felt the sudden change in dynamic. They would watch, curious and tense themselves.

At night, when all slept, the pent up rage would be channelled into their actions; where intense, heated looks and scathing insults were thrown to and fro.

It went on for several weeks, perhaps even a month or two, and Dorian had soon become accustomed to it.

The second advancement came one day, when they were about in the Fallow Mire.

It had been cold, windy and wet. Throw the ingredients together, _stirstirstir_ , and a sulky Dorian is made.

It was no disguise Lavellan had brought him here with purpose. He had huddled behind the Inquisitor, who - for some reason - was unaffected by the ghastly weather. He voiced his complaints more than once, eyes occasionally travelling to the elf's face.

It had become a sort of game; to push the limits of patience of the other. It would always lead back to the bed, where Dorian - as morbid as he may have first thought it - would savour the vicious change in Lavellan.

Of course, it was not to say Lavellan had not irritated him without agenda, either. The elven apostate would make snide remarks, though never actually making it a direct confrontation. In turn, Dorian would take pleasure in pushing his head down into the sheets when the sky turned dark, pleased at the way the younger man squirmed beneath his hold.

As they rested atop a hill for the night - not that they could actually tell; the surroundings seemed to be in perpetual darkness - amidst all the breeze and rain, he heard himself protesting against having to come here. The Iron Bull had then snorted, before wiggling his brows in lewd commentary and offering to warm him up.

Dorian had quipped back, not thinking much into it. It was fun banter, and though he would usually consider it, he didn't. For some reason, as surprising as it was, he felt content sharing only Lavellan's bed.

The Qunari was persistent, however, and did not cease in his open flirting. It was only then did Dorian notice how the conversation between Varric and Lavellan had died out quite some time ago, and with the newly-found silence hanging upon them, heavy and strangely foreboding, Dorian thought how the elf seemed a little too stiff, even for his standards.

Just like that, the moment passed, and everything felt as normal again when the dwarf offered them a bottle of wine to go with their bread and cheese, courtesy of Josephine.

Dorian moves positions. His back is aching, again.

The memory of him being rammed against the edge of the bed upon their return to Skyhold is still fresh in his mind. Lavellan had pretty much dragged him up his quarters the instant he felt none were eyeing them. As the elf pushed him down against the soft linen, livid temper evident in his gestures and muttered elven phrases that the mage was certain were curses, Dorian knew he had stepped over an invisible line.

 _Fenedhis_ -  _masal din'an_.

As the Dalish began sucking down his jaw, fingers weighing down his shoulders, Dorian had understood.

Smouldering lour. Sharp, tingling nips. Little shards of glass pressed into him that made him moan and bury himself into the crook of the elf's neck.

Lavellan had been jealous. For some reason or another, Dorian had now become his property; an item not to be shared. An imprint - a claim - was due.

A confusing realisation, but it had pooled in him a feeling of warmth. He had never been in such a situation - to actually be _wanted_ , and be considered dear and precious. The elven mage had been the first to mark his territory on him. The added fact that the elf held him in such a regard, despite his sentiments, made it all the better. A novel, intoxicating revelation, indeed.

When he ordered him to bare his neck the next day, smiles were concealed beneath a grim countenance. He could sense smugness radiating from the taciturn Inquisitor as Sera snickered, and Cassandra blushed whilst they travelled the hills of the Hinterlands. Then, when they headed back to the keep, the complacency increased ten-fold from the Iron Bull's crowing and their other companions' flustered - if not overly interested - reactions.

A sudden jerk from Lavellan causes him to shut his eyes, and lie motionless.

It is not as though he is scared. He isn't.

He has made it a point to make his leave from the chambers when all is quiet, and none are watching. He expects this of himself, and he knows it be expected of him.

To be caught awake, to be caught having not left - all are paramount for an explosion of shame and embarrassment. He has faced, endured, suffered much. Pride, at the very least, he will retain.

He has always climbed out of bed whilst the elf dozed without fail. No complaints were received, so it clearly had been the correct thing to do. The thought of being intentionally awakened and chased off occurs to him, but before he has time to lavish further attention on it, he feels the ghost of a touch on his hair.

He resists flinching in surprise, and keeps his breathing even as the sensation farther materialises.

Fingers, he notes, as they run through his locks, gentle and slow, as though lovingly petting a beloved pet.

He hates to admit it, but it's such a soothing act, that he wants to lean farther into Lavellan's palm. This alarms him, but he is swiftly silenced by a second thought - is this how it feels to be in a relationship? To be able to experience the safety and contentment he is feeling now?

—but why is _Lavellan_...?

As an experiment, to sate his curiosity, he twitches, and the stroking pauses. One second, two seconds, before it resumes.

It goes on for several moments. When the hand is finally retracted, and light snoring is heard, does Dorian crack open one eye. His heart is pounding loudly, and his thoughts in disarray. A thousand more intrude. He tries to push them all aside.

He shouldn't think too much about it, but he does anyway.

Why?  _Whyhowwhywhat_? It cannot be helped.

Suddenly needing time alone, he hastily clambers away from the Inquisitor, all whilst his chest goes _thump-thump_.

.

* * *

.

The instant he hears of the news, he has to forcefully make himself remain seated in the library, perky little ass perched on the velvety material of his armchair. Panic is rushing through his veins, and he is sure that inevitably, should he not move, will cause him to expire on the spot.

 _Rush_ , splash,  _simmer_.

"Are you alright, Dorian?" Cassandra is peering down at him, dark eyes flickering with what seems to be worry. He has few friends in the Inquisition, but the Seeker has proven her friendship during the course of his stay, no matter their rocky start. He forces an impeccable smile, and leans back.

"Of course. Do send my well wishes for the Inquisitor to feel better. Corypheus won't be idle while he dallies about in bed," he says, smooth, crisp and clear. He is good at delivering lines - it is his forte, an art he has mastered over the years.

When she takes her leave, albeit confused as to why he had not offered to check up on their leader, he relaxes, bright grin hardening into a stern line.

Again, he feels the need to head to the Inquisitor's chambers - but, no, it will not do. It will be most improper, he tells himself. He is not welcome to be by the elf's side. He knows this. He _knows_ this.

What is he but a mere plaything? To only be used for sexual purposes. He knows what he had signed up for, all that time ago. Yet, he can't stop himself from wishing, for hoping for more.

Foolish _frivolous_ fool.

Frustration wells up, and he looks out to the window behind him. The sky is bright and blue, with wisps of white drifting lazily by. A stark contrast to his inner turmoil, where storms are raging and thunder rumbles.

Ever since that night - the night where he'd felt and witnessed the softer side to Lavellan - he has been in discordant with himself. He had become more aware, more alert to the nobler qualities of his fellow mage.

Honest, determined, exceedingly loyal to those who had gained his trust and camaraderie... all these traits he had never noticed before, for he had been blinded by his own hatred for the proud, arrogant, sadistic bastard. After a while of observing, he'd discovered his impressions having taken a different, drastic turn.

It'd horrified him, that such a thing had occurred, and the sense of affection that had settled within his heart scared him beyond belief. How could it have been possible? The Inquisitor had massive flaws that should have crossed out any redeeming feature.

Such would be nothing but trouble. He was no stranger to the consequences it held.

Nonetheless, he held such feelings, and they wouldn't disappear with the snapping of fingers. He hid them well - another talent of his - and none had been any the wiser.

However, at this current stage, he is on the verge of leaving to visit the injured, half-dead elf. Surgeon is a trusted healer of Skyhold, but her medical expertise doesn't hold a candle to healing magic. _Has Solas done anything to help_? he ponders anxiously.

Several moments tick by, and finally, he lets out a deep sigh that reflects only a portion of his mental dilemma. It causes the Grand Enchanter to spare him a brief, searching look. He crosses his legs, and idly picks up the tome he had reading before Cassandra's arrival to inform him of the Inquisitor's unfortunate incident in the Hissing Wastes.

.

* * *

.

It is just past midnight when Dorian practically kicks open the door.

From the bed, he sees Lavellan's head snap up in shock, golden globes widening slightly as he attempts to comprehend Dorian's unprecedented presence. The Altus takes a brief moment to examine the elf.

Several unrolled scrolls lie upon his lap. Bandages soaked in blood wrapped around his chest and upper arms. Technically, his entire body is wrapped up with wet patches of red seeping through.

Splash, drip, drop; he can almost hear it.

His gaze travels upwards to take in a tired, though shocked, countenance, scrapped cheeks and pale lips. His hair is sleeked back, and though Skyhold is chilly, his forehead glistens with sweat. Infection, Dorian accounts for the possibility, and critical blood loss. The injuries sustained from the heavy mauling are - or, had been - critical, he realises.

As he steps closer to the elf, a wave of immense relief washes over him, cooling and calming. He has much to thank for for Lavellan's stable - at least, for now - condition. He is mindful not to let his mask slip, nevertheless he feels naked under Lavellan's scrutinising.

At the same time, he is nervous. What does the Inquisitor think of such a display? Moreover, what will he do once Dorian executes what his body is propelling him to carry out?

Darkness looms, and shame rears its ugly, ugly head.

He has never lost control over himself. Perhaps that is due to the fact that none of his previous interests had ever been the tiniest bit close to having their spirit return to the Fade. The fretting had been agonising at best, and the compulsion to come up here overwhelming at least.

In the end, the pressing urgency he felt had become too much - even painful - to bear, and within a few heartbeats, he had been out of his bed, and out of the doorway.

A first, it dawns upon him, as he strides ever nearer to the stunned, confused elf. Lavellan's head is tilted to the side, an adorable habit that Dorian finds endearing, and the tips of his ears are pointed downwards as physical manifestation of the clockworks turning in his head.

This is going against all he has known in his life, but at this junction, this turning point, he can't find in him the want to care. Has he not left Tevinter? He will not remain bound to its social conformity. He has already reached this far; what is to happen, he does not know, but all that he has felt to this point has given him courage and purpose to fight for _his_ desires.

—and if Lavellan's tender petting holds any truth to what Dorian had suspected mere moments before whilst lying in wake of counting sheep...

"Dorian, what are y—" the mage's words are cut off as he presses his lips to his.

No turning back now; the road of no return.

The kiss is soft, chaste and sweet, with a hint of copper on his tongue. He is careful not to bump any wounds, and holds back from gripping the sides of his head too tightly.

There is slight resistance, before it quickly melts away, and to his utmost stupefaction, Lavellan begins to reciprocate in earnest with rivalling tenderness. In this one unique gesture, there is no battle for dominance. An arm snakes around his neck to tug him closer, and Dorian thinks he can feel a smile against his own.

Though the act had not been overexerting, it was no less passionate, and they came apart, gasping for air.

Something pleasantly close to happiness blossoms in his chest as he begins to make sense of things - he had been right, after all.

As the two breathe, he becomes sensitively aware of the suffocating silence that has befallen them like a heavy drape. He starts to speculate what to say when Lavellan speaks, amused and barely audible, "I was starting to think you weren't going to show up."

Withered leaves break off from their branches, and sway side-to-side as they descend; ashes _ashes_ as they all fall down. Glowing green sprouts in their place, and he can sense the approach of spring.

" _Hmph_ , and risk missing the chance to warm your bed?" he returns, eyes crinkling as he laughs. "Perish the thought."

He likes the atmosphere around them - it is a good, nice change; one that isn't filled with simple lust and piled resentment.

They both look up and Dorian is startled to see the blatant fondness in Lavellan's stare. What it stirs in him is indescribable, and he finds himself leaning in. Without prior notice, they are kissing again, and this time, Lavellan leads. His inner cheer is drowned out by the flowing, boiling river that threatens to flood the dams about his heart.

When they pull away, the elf rests his back against the wall of the bed, chuckling as he clears his throat.

"So - when, exactly, did you fall for me?"

**Author's Note:**

> T̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶u̶n̶e̶d̶i̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶k̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶r̶e̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶C̶h̶r̶i̶s̶t̶m̶a̶s̶.̶  
> I̶'̶l̶l̶ ̶d̶e̶f̶i̶n̶i̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶t̶c̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶p̶i̶e̶c̶e̶s̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶s̶s̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶u̶r̶r̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶p̶a̶s̶s̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶m̶e̶.̶
> 
> I've made some final touches to it.  
> Originally, the story was meant to be filled with phrases, figures of speech and all that. I figured it wasn't a good idea, so here we are. Of course, there are still little snippets of them lurking about the text.
> 
> Have a jolly holiday, and thanks for reading!


End file.
